


I'd Rather Hurt

by sasha_b



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-02
Updated: 2011-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-22 02:56:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can one pain replace another?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'd Rather Hurt

**Author's Note:**

> this is darker Erik than I'm used to; all concrit is welcomed. Features very mild self pain.

The rose bush is large and in full bloom and Erik walks around it, examining the perfection. Blood red flowers, pinks, yellows, whites, all mixed in together, although orderly and precise. He wonders how much time Charles’ mother had spent out here – and then laughs, as he realizes it was a paid gardener that showed this plant, indeed all the plants in the defined and ordered garden love.

It’s warm out; his white polo and thin linen slacks have come from some shop Charles had taken him to when they first arrived in Virginia (he’d only had his briefcase and the wetsuit – having stashed the case up on shore when he’d gone to the yacht, knowing he probably wouldn’t come back. Funny how things turn out). The slip-on shoes are fine crafted soft leather, one thing he won’t compromise on. Now that he can afford things – he’s been able to get what he wants for a while, but clothing and the way he looks and his grooming supplies don’t matter unless they’re part of a costume for whatever role he’s playing in order to find his goal. The goal that throbs through his brain and is everything and anything he is. It’s _what_ he is, what builds him up from the inside, what makes him exist, and it’s the only thing he can feel. The goal, the prize, and his ways to get to it.

He can’t quite understand the glee Charles expresses at the steps the children are taking toward perfecting their skills; can’t understand – or more to the point, feel – Charles’ excitement at having another person around to talk to, to play Chess with (Erik’s mouth stretches in a smile), to go over innumerable scenarios and to discuss the plight of the human and mutant races with.

Erik doesn’t feel much beyond what he’s trying to do, no matter what Charles seems to think. And the more days pass, the more he begins to be antsy about that. He wants to be dragged along with Charles and his glee, wants to be able to have animated conversations with the other man without having to force a caring expression, wants to discuss plans and the future without first considering what he’ll be doing once Shaw is taken care of.

He feels a cold steel inside his brain, feels the bow that is his determination bend and fire with the strength of his conviction, feels the arrow as it is let loose on the world, finding its way, the red of the target shivering as the arrow strikes, complete.

He feels nothing else, really. But when Charles is there, something…he’s not sure what to call it, but it might be a thing he’d like to have in his life. He’d let the other man drag him to the surface of the water for a reason; he’d let the sub go without fighting as hard as he could because of something. Something he’d been missing, but how to describe it? He can’t.

He lifts a long vine that holds several roses and squeezes the tubular vessel, the thorns growing there piercing the skin of his hand. He winces but continues to squeeze, the confusing thoughts he’d been thinking fading as the pain of the tearing of his skin becomes his focus. He opens his hand, and blood drips from the places the thorns have pierced him, methodically dripping to the ground, the thick sod soaking it up.

He cocks his head and watches, the ever present thought that is _will kill Shaw_ fading to a dull throb as opposed to a loud roar. He listens to that happen as he squeezes the thorns again, and slowly a smile creeps over his angular face, the lines in his forehead smoothing as he realizes.

The pain is intense but still he smiles, all teeth, as blood stains the beautiful leather shoes he wears.

*

It is midnight and the children are asleep; the house, like all old houses, is creaky and noisy but Erik is stealth itself and is downstairs in the den quickly, books surrounding him, game board set up, his legs at right angles to the chair he’s sitting in. The robe he wears is plush and surely belonged to Charles’ father or stepfather; it is almost too large for him. He leans forward toward the small table in front of him; a single candle burns in the center of it, the mahogany reflecting thick red light back at him. He can feel the heat and smell the smoke of the thing, and yet his brain is _rage rage rage_ and _I am wasting time here!_

He blinks and swallows. Raising his right hand (his left one is the one he uses for his gift; he’s not sure why, but there it is) he holds it above the candle, the warmth pleasant and crackling. He folds his fingers under, lowering the hand, his legs tightly together, the robe tucked around him.

 _rage lonely disappointed in you, Kleiner Erik. So weak, and yet so much possibility. Come here and let me help you_

The heat is more intense, now, and yet his face doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t betray any sense of any emotion he might have. His hair, perfect and thick, slides a bit into his face, which he uncharacteristically ignores. Nothing matters but the flame and what it might do for him. He lowers his hand a little more.

He can’t hold it still that close to the candle, so he opens his fingers and begins to pass them over the flame, back and forth, slowly, his mind intent on itself, listening, waiting –

 _lonely so sad_

 _Charles will be wondering what I’m doing if he finds me_

 _Hurt anger desperation_

 _I can do this, I can be here with him, with the others_

 _We can take care of each other_

 _We can – I can – have a life here_

The monotony of his life fades. He thinks of something he’s never imagined in the whole of his existence: a future that features himself (and Charles; that is terrifying and new) alive and doing something for his own good, not just for the means to an end. He smiles, and it is slow and aching and the flame burns him and allows him to forget the pain of what has been done to him. It allows him to forget the creation of the monster that is only good for one thing. He feels his eyes tighten and fill, happiness at this found trick (it hurts, but it makes the pattern go away) overwhelming him into shock.

He jerks his hand off the candle as the door creaks, and sits up straight. He shoves his disobedient hair off his face and turns to look at Charles as the other man stands at his left, his hand touching Erik’s shoulder warmly.

“I can feel you a few floors away,” the other man says quietly, as though he’s afraid he’ll wake someone. Not with these walls. “Are you alright?”

Erik closes his right hand into a fist, the burned skin painful and beginning to seep fluid. He smiles more broadly, a quick flashing grin that feels (strange) new and tight. He likes it. “Fine. Couldn’t sleep. Sorry to wake you.” He swipes a quick left hand under his eyes, pretending to be tired.

“No apologies necessary,” Charles answers, a yawn splitting his red lips. “We’ve been so active, I’m just surprised. Erik, you’re bleeding.”

Erik pulls the hand Charles has picked up out of the other man’s grasp and stands. “It’s nothing. I got involved with some roses earlier. I’ll go wash it, shall I?” If he makes a game of it, perhaps Charles will leave it alone.

A frown creases Charles’ forehead. “I’ll come with you. I’m sure I have a med kit somewhere.”

He lets Charles lead him from the den, turning back only briefly to blow out the candle, his mind beginning to pulse again with the goal, with the prize, with everything his life has been until now. He blinks slowly and bites his lip and lets it come, the rage familiar and the only thing he knows.

He can smell the smoke from the blown out candle as they make their way to the kitchen.

*

President Kennedy makes his address, and Erik tells them they’d best _get a good night’s sleep_ before turning on his heel and exiting the mansion, gun still in hand, mind whirling, a tornado of thoughts he’s only recently become uncomfortable with.

The study, later that night, and Charles is focused fixedly on him, his blue eyes projecting what he always thinks when he thinks of Erik (compassion, support, perhaps something else) as they both ignore the game, intent on each other, now. Erik’s eyes search out the candle he’s been using (practicing with for a few weeks), imagining the flame, heat and pain, intensity he can believe in – his hand is sore but his mind is more in control today than it’s been in weeks. In months, even. He moved the dish! He did something without the rage!

 _…killing Shaw will not bring you peace._

Erik is aware that Charles is paying attention only to him, even though they’ve been talking about the fate of mutant kind. He finds it strange first, but then as he clenches his (damaged) hand, curling the fingers around each other, he says his lines, feels the truth of them, but also can imagine something _else_ afterward.

“Peace was never an option.”

And yet –

He stands up and slides his hands into his pockets, smooth and with assurance in his movements. He is fluid grace, and knows what he wants to do.

He knows he can deflect the bullet, and with his brain on overdrive, he knows he has to (wants to) find a way to let the light he’s been discovering is possible inside himself. He wants it, wants the cessation of thought, wants the roller coaster of direction to slow and let him off, so he can see what other rides there are to experience. He can’t explain this to Charles, can’t explain his methods, but he is sure of himself and what he needs to do.

If he can master this bit of control without the rage, then he will be ready to exact his revenge and _still_ have a life, a future, something else entirely than he’d ever even dared to dream of.

“I’m going for a walk,” he tells Charles, knowing the other man will seek him out eventually. Maybe, just maybe, if he tells Charles what he’s discovered, the other man can help him with it. But –

Charles lets him go, and Erik retrieves the gun from his room, and makes his way to the bunker that Alex has scorched so many times it smells like (ashes) winter. His turtleneck and chinos and soft shoes (a new pair) give him the appearance of strength, though in truth he’s never been weaker. He clenches his teeth; Shaw won’t win, not this time. Kleiner Erik has a weapon of his own now, a mental weapon he’d never believed was possible for him. That kind of strength lay with men like Charles.

And yet.

 _rage rage rage fear can I do this_

 _He’s destroyed me made me into this thing that has no future_

 _The pain makes me stronger_

 _The pain I choose_

 _NOT his pain_

He holds the gun under his chin, spreading his legs, hand steady, finger on the trigger, focus now, Erik, on the task and what this can do for you.

What it can do for you and _Charles._ You can train yourself to move on, to picture something besides death, to feel the pain _you_ create, not the pain _he_ created, and prove you can be something more than the animal he made you into.

This is your choice.

He pulls the trigger with his finger; his mind involved in the monumental task of what he knows is the most important test of all.

 _blamm_

 _Things slow, fade to white, feel the bullet, taste its metal, control it, pluck its strings with your gift_

It spins away from him even as it scrapes his chin, the kill it’s denied forcing it into a strange arc, whining away from him, striking the wall as he’s directed it to. Bits of brick blow up around where it hits, and he waits, listening, as the tiny scrape on his chin drips a bit of blood. Nothing like his hand had bled when he’d scratched it with the rose thorns, or when he’d dragged it through the flame time and time again.

He closes his eyes, and allows his hand to drop, not realizing he’s shaking, sweating, crying silently.

What kind of man needs pain to feel no pain?

“Why?”

Charles’ voice is soft and devoid of feeling. Erik opens his eyes, and sets the gun down on the ground, slowly, bending carefully, his body aching in strange places, muscles randomly firing. He wants to run, run as far as he can from this place, but where would he go?

To the one thing he’s been trying to change for the past few weeks.

Failure, complete and abject failure.

He turns to Charles and lets the tears run down his face, allows them to fill his eyes over and over and to spill over his cheeks and to wet his shirtfront. He pushes the door to the bunker open, and walks up the steps into the night air, hand clenched, burned, poked with thorns, chin darkened with muzzle flash and cut and bleeding. He walks to the edge of the yard where they’d stood as he’d moved the satellite dish and weeps, still silent and broken. He should have known it wouldn’t work; Erik is the creation, Shaw the creator, and nothing can change their future. They are bound together, until one of them is gone. No amount of self created pain or pleasure could ever change that.

What a fool you’ve been, Lehnsherr.

“I wanted to try,” he answers Charles at last. The other man is standing next to him, arms crossed tightly over his chest, squeezing, pinching. Erik can feel his confusion and anger and worry and something else (Erik thinks it might be love, but now he’s not so sure). “The anger has defined me for so long. I wanted to believe in the things you told me, Charles. The lies I told myself.”

“They aren’t lies, Erik,” Charles says carefully, both of them staring at the dish, still turned toward them. “You can be the better man. I can see it. You don’t need pain to do that. You have so much possibility, so much heart and promise – God,” he finishes, the word trailing off, whispered and sorrow filled and Erik turns to look at him, and Charles is crying with him.

“I should have known.”

“You can’t know everything, Charles.”

“But I should.”

That is the most terrifying thing Erik’s ever heard Charles say.

Erik sucks in a breath, and lets it out, the air forming puffs of steam on the chill wind. “I don’t know who I am, Charles. I only have one way of trying to figure that out. Without the pain, some kind of pain, I am …” he stops, eyes narrowed, tears slowing. “That’s why.”

“You could figure that out, with my help. With me,” Charles sighs, words tiny, ghost like things, brushing over Erik like clouds that will disappear with one wrong touch. “I want to – I want you. I want you here, with me.”

Erik closes his eyes.

 _I want you, too._

He can’t say it aloud. Instead he walks back to the mansion, turning without waiting to see if Charles will follow him. The night is bold and bright and the moon is monstrous in the sky, filling the whole yard, the whole city, the whole world with its garish glow, and Erik is reminded oddly of something Shaw had told him once.

 _Blessed are the cracked, Mein Erik, for they let in the light. You’d do well to remember that._

Oh, what a lie.

The next day Erik lifts a sub out of the water, takes his revenge, and cripples his closest friend (his only friend, his everything that has any kind of meaning in the world that’s left to him).

As he takes Azazel’s hand, his burned one (poked, cracked) stings and aches and he can feel the thorns there again, squeezing them in his mind’s eye, can feel the flame crisping against his flesh, can feel the scrape of the bullet as it touches his chin in passing, the image of Charles laying on the beach replaced by the image of Charles in front of him, smiling, blue eyes wide and happy, his lips forming the name _Erik_ time and again as he laughs.

The pain does have a purpose after all.


End file.
